by Greg Enslen
By then, he’d been back in the bayou, getting on with the NOPD and trying to forget his time in the military. He hadn’t enjoyed his time in. He’d felt like an instrument of death that was never used, a weapon that had been loaded and aimed but never fired. It made him feel even more helpless, useless, to be fully trained and seeing all of the things that were going on in the world, and he couldn’t do anything about any of them. It had been a big part of the decision to become a police officer.
Trudy hadn’t been behind the idea. They’d married in 1985, and by 1989 she was happy to get out of the service and move back to Louisiana. But she’d fought him on joining the force. She wanted him home, safe, especially with Laura being only two at the time.
Frank shook his head and went back to the paper.
In Afghanistan, the Soviets hadn’t been able to fix it in the ‘80s, and he doubted that the current U.S. war in Afghanistan would end any better. A hundred tiny fiefdoms, overseen by a hundred leaders, all squabbling to get a little more land or--
“I don’t CARE!” a male voice shouted, breaking the quiet of the restaurant. Frank looked up.
Gina, the waitress, was standing behind the counter near the door, where customers paid their bills on the way out.
So was her soon-to-be ex-husband.
Stan was a short man with a thick neck and big arms, wearing civilian clothes. But Frank could tell by the haircut; the man was definitely a cop.
Gina had been Frank’s waitress the first time he’d been in here, and he’d had most of his meals either here or at the Bob Evans across the way. She’d been crying that first day, and he’d asked about it. And Frank had heard the whole story.
He knew it was a mistake, as soon as he’d considered opening his mouth, but he hated to see a nice woman swinging from the gallows.
Of course, he should’ve left it all alone.
Stan was, according to her, an idiot. He drank and stayed out all night. And routinely and regularly kicked her ass. Frank had heard the same story a hundred times.
Instead of leaving it alone, he’d called her aside the next day and given her some advice. Stan and Gina were separated, but she was having trouble getting him to stay away. She’d been worried about his temper. Frank’s list was easy, non-confrontational. But it looked like the husband had found an opportunity to discuss it with her.
“Stan, you have to leave,” Gina hissed at him. “This is where I work--”
“You won’t talk to me anywhere else,” Stan said loudly. “You got me SUSPENDED!” His face was red, flushed--either the guy was embarrassed to be talking to her in public, or, more likely, he’d been drinking. Liquid courage, Ben Stone had called it.
“We don’t have anything to talk about,” Gina answered, standing her ground.
“Yes, we do,” Stan said, his eyes wide, and lunged at her. Gina stumbled backward, knocking a paper calendar off the wall. Stan’s hand swiped the air where she had just been.
Frank was on his feet.
Gina moved to the side and backed up against the window that looked out over the parking lot.
Stan stepped around the small counter and grabbed at her, latching a beefy fist onto her thin arm.
Frank knew he had two choices.
One, he could step up to the counter and chat the man up, try to get him to back off. Or, two, he could skip that and attempt to incapacitate the man immediately, though that would be difficult. They were in a very confined space. And Stan was a cop. And probably armed.
Frank decided to take option one.
“Hey, man,” Frank said from across the counter. He kept his voice light, happy, non-confrontational. “The lady doesn’t want any trouble. What do you say you let her go?” Frank said, smiling.
Stan turned and looked at Frank.
“Screw you, man,” Stan said, spitting his words at Frank like bullets. “This is none of your business.”
Frank pointed a thumb over his shoulder.
“They’ve got excellent coffee here,” Frank said, smiling, keeping it light. A part of him was screaming to walk away, let it go. “I was enjoying a cup--actually, my fourth cup--when I heard you. It sounds like you’re mad about something.”
“Damn straight I’m mad,” Stan yelled, gripping Gina’s arm tightly. “She’s leaving me!”
Frank caught the smell of alcohol on his breath and noticed the man’s bloodshot eyes. Stan wasn’t drunk, but he’d had a couple. Ben Stone had been right. He’d gotten an early start, kinda like Frank, but this guy obviously couldn’t handle it.
“It’s OK,” Frank said calmly. “Sit down and have a cup of coffee with me. I’ve got some free time--tell me what’s going on.”
Gina piped up at that moment. And she managed to say the exact wrong thing.
“Let go of me, Stan,” she said, struggling to break free of Stan’s grip. “You’re hurting my arm. This is Frank. He’s been helping me figure out what to do.”
Frank turned slowly and looked at her, shaking his head slightly. Seriously? Was she just trying to escalate this?
“So,” Stan shouted, really looking at Frank for the first time. “You’re the one that’s been telling Gina to leave me, clear out my stuff?” Stan shouted at Frank. “I’m a cop! And now she had the locks changed. My keys don’t work anymore! She’s just not listening, and she’s still my wife!”
Well, maybe it was better this way. At least Stan was mad at Frank now, focusing all of his anger on him. At least his grip on Gina seemed to have loosened.
Frank decided to take a gamble. He changed tactics midstream.
“Yeah, Gina is a peach,” Frank said, smiling and turning to look at Gina. He ran his eyes up and down her body, smiling appreciatively, then nodded at Stan. “We’ve only been out a few times. But I’ll tell you, she knows how to treat a man--”
Stan’s face turned red, faster than Frank thought possible. Stan let go of Gina and turned, charging around the glass counter, coming at Frank like an angry bull seeing red.
Krav Maga was not a complicated martial art to master, but there were certain moves that worked better in tight, confined spaces, such as this one. Much of Krav was designed for fighting multiple foes at once, but some of the more acrobatic moves were centered around spinning. In fact, the martial art was similar to the Brazilian “capoeira” style, which involved so many spins and acrobatic moves that it looked like dancing.
Frank had trained others in Krav Maga for over ten years.
As Stan came around the counter, Frank stepped back to make room. It came as second nature, running through the checklist in his head. Assess the threat, verify the space requirements, check for bystanders. He’d taught it so many times, the patter of words was as familiar as an old song.
In just under a second, he grabbed Stan’s arm and pivoted, backing away, using the man’s forward momentum to spin Stan around, then using his free hand to grab Stan and shove him downward. In one smooth motion, Frank spun around and dropped the man and landed a knee square in the middle of Stan’s spine, pinning him to the floor.
Stan screamed, probably a combination of surprise and the sudden pain from the twisted arm and hand. He struggled to turn over, kicking his legs and trying to buck Frank off, but the weight of Frank’s body held him down.
“Settle down, now,” Frank said quietly. He leaned in a little more, digging his knee into the man’s spine, feeling the bones grind.
Stan let out a loud shriek, and the struggling ceased. One of Frank’s hands was on the back of Stan’s head, pushing his face down into the carpet. Frank’s other hand was pulling upward on Stan’s wrist, twisting it.
Frank let go of Stan’s head and felt around to the back of his belt for where the cuffs should be, where they’d been for so many years, kept in a little pouch next to the gun on his belt. He felt at his belt for a moment, before he realized they weren’t there anymore. It had been years since he carried cuffs, but the habit was hard to break.
Frank shook his head a
nd looked up at Gina, who was staring down at Frank on top of her incapacitated, soon-to-be ex-husband.
“You better call the cops,” Frank said.
It didn’t take long before Frank could hear the sirens--this was one of their own, suspended or not. Frank waited patiently, one knee on Stan’s back, until the police car and EMTs arrived.
Sergeant Burwell walked in, gun drawn, and assessed the situation. Frank nodded at him and put his hands up, then slowly stood up off of Stan, who rolled over loudly and began complaining to everyone within hearing distance.
Burwell looked from Stan back to Frank, who waited. Burwell escorted Stan outside--the man was rubbing his wrist and cradling one arm.
After a few minutes, Burwell came back inside the restaurant, his firearm back in the holster. He glanced in Frank’s direction and then began taking statements. Frank had been talking to Gina, comforting her, but Burwell soon led her outside to get checked out by the EMTs. After Burwell got Gina settled in the ambulance, he waved in the window at Frank to come outside.
The parking lot of the Tip Top Diner was a hub of activity. The ambulance was treating Gina, and Stan was strapped to a stretcher inside the vehicle. Burwell directed Frank over to a patrol car, while another cop, a young deputy, was waving traffic out of the parking lot and keeping the area clear.
Stan saw Frank passing the ambulance and sat up, apologizing loudly. The fight was gone out of him, evaporated. Now the man was just flustered and sorry. Frank had seen it a thousand times--the fight was gone now, the fire in his blood quenched.
Gina didn’t look like she was buying Stan’s protestations and apologies. Another waitress stood with her, as the EMTs wound a bandage around her bruised arm. Her skin was already starting to turn blue.
Burwell stood by his car, working on the report.
“Did you have to break his arm?” Burwell asked.
Frank shrugged at the burly sergeant.
“He was making trouble,” Frank said. “If I hadn’t stopped him, he might have hurt the woman, or bystanders.” He glanced up and saw Gina was sobbing while she talked to the female EMT.
“Stan’s a cop,” Burwell said defensively. “So technically, you’ve assaulted a police officer. That’s a year, at least.”
Frank nodded, thoughtful. He thought he detected a hint of bemused camaraderie in the man and took a chance.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “But the guy’s a real dick.”
Burwell looked up, and a grin broke out on his face.
“That’s true,” he said.
Burwell went back to the paperwork, writing up the report. Frank watched, unsure of what to do next. He didn’t want to be involved, of course, but it was true–he’d assaulted a cop, and in front of witnesses. While he wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk away, he couldn’t afford to get thrown in jail, even for the day. Nothing could get in the way of his lunch with Laura.
So he said nothing.
Burwell glanced up. “Reports, huh? We’re already spread thin, getting ready for the ransom drop later today.”
Frank nodded. “My boss used to say the department was just like an outhouse – it didn’t run without the paperwork,” he said.
The burly sergeant nodded, and Frank thought he saw the hint of a smile.
“It’s just that I don’t really have time for this shit.”
Frank nodded. “Sorry about that. But I couldn’t just stand by and let him hurt her.”
Burwell looked him in the eye. “So, you’re happy to get involved in this, but you can’t lift a finger when it comes to two kidnapped girls? Sorry, I’m having trouble figuring out your priorities.”
“He got aggressive,” Frank said quietly.
“Doesn’t matter,” Burwell said. “You call 911, or clear everybody out, or just draw down on him. I know you’re carrying. But the assault charge–I can’t make that go away. If Stan presses charges, it’ll be up to a judge.”
Frank shook his head. “I should have stayed out of it.”
“Right.”
“But he’s a cop--he should know how to hold his temper. Don’t you guys get trained?”
Burwell looked up sharply. “Of course he should have known better.”
Frank shook his head.
“I don’t think it would stick--too many witnesses saw him come in and push her around,” Frank said. “Yelling like an idiot. Besides, I’ve been coaching her, getting her to take the steps she needed to take to get away from him. She told me a long story--sounds like everyone was on his side.”
Frank looked at Burwell, the implication obvious. Had the cops been covering for one of their own?
Burwell nodded. “Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t have taken his stories at face value. He said she was a crazy bitch.”
Frank turned and looked at the ambulance, as they closed the back doors and prepared to leave. Gloomy rain clouds smudged the horizon.
“I don’t know. I only know what she said,” Frank said, nodding at Gina. “And I can tell when a woman is scared for her life. I told her what to do--change the locks, take a bunch of pictures, get his stuff out of the house. Any judge in the world will see him as the aggressor, coming to where she works.”
“I know,” Burwell agreed. “Gina came in a couple days ago and filed all the TRO paperwork. Surprised the hell out of a lot of people. That takes nerve, when your husband works there. Was that your idea?”
“Yeah,” Frank nodded. A few drops of rain began to fall from the darkening sky above them. “I gave her my opinion. Once they start hitting......well, you know.”
Burwell nodded.
“Like you said, he’s a dick,” Burwell conceded. Clearly, the man was starting to warm to Frank. “Always has been. But now I’ve gotta do a report and write everything up. He can press charges, but I doubt he will. I’ll get statements.”
Frank looked up at Burwell. Any normal person would thank Burwell. This could have been an ugly situation, a run-in that ended with a cop in the hospital. But Frank’s mind was already on other things--getting disengaged from this situation, concentrating on his meeting later with Laura, leaving town. He didn’t want anything to do with Burwell or anyone else. When Frank opened his mouth, Burwell was probably expecting a “thank you,” or at least a kind word, from one cop to another.
Instead, Frank nodded curtly. “So, can I go?”
Burwell nodded, the half-smile fading from his lips. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?”
Frank was taken aback.
Burwell leaned forward, his face turning red. “You aren’t worried at all about this, are you? And you don’t care at all about those kidnapped girls. You don’t even care about Gina, either. So why get involved?”
Frank glanced back at where the ambulance had been, but he refused to get pulled into the debate again.
“We done here?” Frank asked quietly.
Burwell looked furious, but the man was a professional. After a long moment, he nodded.
“For now.”
Frank nodded and walked back inside, not looking back. It was starting to rain. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ambulance leave.
He sat back down at his booth, ignoring the eyes of everyone in the restaurant. He picked up the paper again and started reading. After a minute or two, Frank picked up his drink and sipped at the half-empty mug. The coffee was cold.
Chapter 12
Charlie shook her head. She had been so stupid.
After a few hours, a young man came to take care of them. He brought them their meals and untied them so they could use the bathroom a few times a day. Sometimes, at night, another person would come to let them use the bathroom, a woman with that screechy, horrible voice that sometimes echoed through the house. Charlie had never even seen the woman’s face.
Other than that, she’d been on this bed for days and days. Charlie hoped it would all be over soon.
There was a scrape on the stairs--she’d seen the staircase railing throug
h the open door yesterday, so she knew the bedroom was on the second floor--and she knew someone was coming. She’d heard the young man talking to two other people, the woman with the high, squeaky voice and another, older man, but only the young man talked to the girls. It was probably him.
The door unlocked and swung slowly open. The young man entered, carrying a tray.
“Do you need to use the restroom?” he asked, setting the tray down on a side table next to the bed.
She nodded, and he cut the zip tie around her wrist and let her go into the attached bathroom by herself. As she’d done in the past, she’d done her business and turned the water on to wash her hands. While the water ran, Charlie spent a short amount of time searching the bathroom for anything that could help her escape but found nothing. She climbed up onto the sink and peeked out the window, but only saw a roof sloping away and a tree. It looked too dangerous to try and escape that way. The window would be a tight fit as well.
She climbed down, shut off the water, and went back out into the bedroom.
“OK?” the man asked.
Charlie nodded.
“My Daddy is on the city council, you know,” Charlie said, climbing onto the bed. “The police work for him. I’m sure they’re looking for us.”
The young man nodded. “I know. And don’t worry--as soon as we get our money, you and Maya will be going home.”
“Money?”
The man nodded again and set out the lunch--bologna sandwich, coleslaw, apple juice. Simple food. “It’s called a kidnapping--the people pay a ransom, and then they get you back.”
She thought about it a moment and picked up the sandwich, taking a bite.
“You asked for money for me. What if you don’t get it?”
The man looked away.
“Have I told you about the ocean?” the man asked smiling.
She nodded. He’d told her before about San Francisco, a town that she’d heard about but never visited. This time he talked to her while she ate, telling her about the Fisherman’s Wharf and an island jail in the middle of the harbor called “the Rock.” And something called a Coit Tower.
